


Lactrodectus

by mrs_d



Series: MCU Kink Bingo [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Discussion of Rape, Discussion of sexual assault, F/M, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, MCU Kink Bingo, Misogyny, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Canon Compliant, Snuff, misogynist language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 15:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16121264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: Tomorrow, someone will find him.





	Lactrodectus

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Snuff" square on my bingo card. Never thought I would write it, but I suppose I've got to do something with all my anger at the seemingly never-ending barrage of news stories about powerful men raping and assaulting women without consequences. (#metoo)
> 
> So strap in, folks, this is not fun. More explicit warnings (spoilers) in the end notes.

Sharon doesn’t need to know.

Tomorrow, someone will find him. The maid, probably. Natasha makes a mental note to leave an extremely generous tip on the bed, where it’ll be found first and pocketed before the cops invade.

In a day or two, the local PD will identify their John Doe as a federal agent. SHIELD records are sealed up pretty tight, but they’ll get a hit, and someone else — probably Maria — will be dispatched to take over the investigation.

She’ll tell Maria, Natasha decides partway through. Her eyes on the shadowy stucco ceiling, she smiles with the decision she’s made. Maria will understand.

Brock glances down at her, and Natasha remembers she’s playing a part. She pretended to drink the margarita he spiked; she’s not supposed to be terribly conscious. So she rolls her head on the pillow, keeps her eyes half-mast, acts like he’s the reason she’s happy. He is, in a way.

“You feel so good,” he gasps.

She nods dopily, even manages a giggle. He doesn’t notice. She wishes she could tell him the truth, but it’s too soon. Sue her, she wants him to go out with a bang.

He’s been ogling her for years, ever since he started leading the STRIKE team — which, as Nat now knows from reading his record, was a decision that the brass made to protect the women around him. He had three complaints from female partners he’d worked with in the field, so why not promote him? His new team is comprised mostly of men, after all, and they never work with Agent Thirteen directly. It makes perfect, sickening sense. He gets more power, while the women he leaves in his wake get—

“Oh, _god,_ you’re so tight, Romanov,” he adds.

Natasha hums, her eyes closed so he can’t see her roll them. Surely he’s almost done, right?

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he grunts. Nope, not done yet. And now that he thinks she’s asleep, he’s talkative. “Been wanting this for years, baby, years, I’ve been thinking about getting up in you, fucking you stupid, you goddamned _cunt,_ so high and mighty, knew you just needed a dick....”

Nat tunes him out, thinking ahead again. She’ll make him climb into the bathtub, easier clean-up that way. She briefly considers making it look like a suicide, but that wouldn’t be fair. She wants people to know — she wants Sharon to know — that this was an execution, a punishment for crimes committed.

Maybe she’ll write _ME TOO_ on the wall in his blood.

The thought almost makes her laugh. Brock is too far gone to notice. She wonders if he’s always like this, so focused on the prize that he’s blind to what’s around him.

Like how she just so happened to be on a mission with STRIKE this week, even though she never is, not without Rogers, who just so happens to be on the other side of the world right now.

Poor, sweet Steve. He would never understand.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah— fuck yes,” Brock pants, his hips driving into her. Natasha suppresses a yawn.

She’ll wipe everything down, including him, leave nothing behind. No cartridges, no prints. Just the money for the maid and his clothing. His wallet and phone she’ll dump, dispose of them in a river or an alley, the way men like him dispose of women they’re done with.

And, speaking of being done, Brock finally stops thrusting. His face is dripping with sweat and contorted with orgasm, his teeth bared like the animal he is. After a second he sighs and pulls out. He doesn’t speak to her; she’s useless to him now.  

Natasha feigns sleep until he walks away. Then she retrieves her gun from the nightstand where she stashed it earlier when he wasn’t looking — again, he’s oblivious to what’s around him. A blind bull thrashing through life, leaving only destruction behind.

Time to put him down.

“Get in the bathtub,” she says, the tip of her pistol and its silencer pressing into the small of his back.

“Wha—?” He half-turns, but Natasha blocks him easily, twists one arm behind his back and kicks his calves to make him move.

“Bathtub,” she repeats. “Now.”

He catches sight of the gun as she marches him across the small room, and he raises his hands placatingly. “You don’t want to do this,” he tries.

Natasha snorts. “Yes, I do.”

“What— why?”

“Get in, and get on your knees,” Natasha directs him instead of answering. There’ll be time enough for that. “Hands on the side of the tub where I can see them.”

Brock obeys, and Natasha grabs the wire she buried in the wastebasket when she checked into the motel room this afternoon. She ties Brock’s hands behind his back, putting him in a vulnerable position, even more than he was when they were fucking a minute ago.

She nudges his chin up with her gun and looks. She can see everything now: his splotchy chest, his flushed face. His groin, moist from her body, the skin of his softened cock still shiny and red. Even after he’s dead it won’t be a secret what he was doing right before.

“They’re going to catch you,” he tells her, like he’s reading her mind. “Your DNA’s all over me.”

“I know,” Natasha says idly. Let him think that she doesn’t have a plan to deal with that.

“So maybe you shouldn’t—”

“How many girls, Brock?” she interrupts.

“I— I don’t understand,” Brock answers her.

“Well, your file has three official complaints,” she goes on, leaning against the wall, well out of his reach. “But we all know that means there’s a hell of a lot that’s not official. So who were you paying in HR to make it all go away?”

“No one,” says Brock. Breathless. Afraid. Natasha lets the darkest part of her soul enjoy his fear. “There’s no— just three.”

“Bullshit,” Natasha says levelly. “How many?”

“I— yeah, okay,” Brock relents. “I paid them off. Is that what you wanted to hear? Does that make you happy?”

“No,” Natasha replies. She half-wishes she could shoot him now, loosen his tongue a little, but she can’t risk getting caught in the act. “Where there’s three, there’s more. I asked you how many.”

“How many what? How many girlfriends I’ve had?” He’s channeling his fear into anger now, the way so many insecure men do. “That’s what this is about, right? Your little blonde friend? The one you make googly eyes at when you think nobody’s looking?”

Natasha compromises, hits him across the face. He keels over, unable to catch himself, and his shoulder collides with the side of the tub.

“Ow!” he shouts, pushing himself back up. “Jesus— fucking dyke. You think fucking me is as close as you’re gonna get to fucking her, is that it?”

Natasha raises her gun. Blinks, breathes. “How many?” she asks one more time. Her fury is running hot under her skin, she can feel it in her veins.

“I don’t know,” Brock answers, and for once she thinks he’s being honest. “I go out, I pick up, I— well, you saw. I ain’t exactly lacking—”

“How many lives have you ruined?” Natasha asks. Her composure is unraveling now, the anger leaking out around its edges. “How many agents did you promise promotions to? How many did you con into sucking you off? How many did you buy a dozen drinks for, take them home and put your dick into them? How many girls have you raped?”

“Whoa, now, whoa,” Brock begins, and Natasha gets behind him, holds his head down against the ceramic tub. “They wanted it,” he protests, muffled.

 _“You_ wanted it,” Natasha corrects him harshly. “You wanted it, and you didn’t care how you got it. You used women like they were toilet paper, threw them away when you were done. You lied and made them think they were crazy for saying that what you did to them was wrong. You paid to make their complaints go away.”

He doesn’t argue. She pulls him up by the shoulders, so he’s on his knees again.

“You’ll never change, Brock,” she tells him. “No matter how much I threaten you, you’ll walk away from this, and when the opportunity comes along to take advantage of another woman, you’ll take it. Because you can’t see anything besides your own pleasure, and you know you’ll get away with it. You’ll never face the consequences of your actions.”

“Really? Then what do you call this?” Brock has the audacity to ask.

Natasha bends down, puts her mouth on the spot just behind his right ear that she’d been kissing earlier. She kisses it again, just once, then stands up and puts the tip of her gun there instead.

“I’m an Avenger, Brock,” she tells him. “You figure it out.”

Then she pulls the trigger.

**Author's Note:**

> Explicit warning/summary: 
> 
> Brock Rumlow thinks he's raping Natasha Romanov. He drugged her drink when they were celebrating after a mission, and she lets him think that she's inebriated. After sex, she interrogates him at gunpoint regarding the women of SHIELD that he's raped and assaulted (including and especially Sharon Carter). He calls her a dyke and a cunt. She kills him, execution style, in the bathroom.


End file.
